UNIVERSITY  OF  CA  RIVERSIDE,  LIBRARY 


3  1210018385177 


NDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 


GEORGE  ALLAN    ENGLAND 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
DR.  J.  LLOYD  EATON 


AUTOGRAPH   EDITION 

Printed  for  subscribers  only 

This  Copy    is 
No 


UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 


UNDERNEATH 
THE      BOUGH 

A     BOOK     OF     VERSES 
By 

GEORGE  ALLAN  ENGLAND 


THE   GRAFTON   PRESS 
NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1903.  by 
GEORGE  ALLAN    ENGLAND 


This   little   book   is   offered   to 

AGNES 

its   inspirer,    in   this   the   tenth   year 
of  her  reign. 


I  desire  to  express  my  sincere  thanks  to  Dr. 
Titus  Munson  Coan,  Mr.  Justo  Quintero  and 
Mr.  A.  B.  Myrick  for  assistance  rendered,  and 
to  acknowledge  the  kind  permission  to  reprint 
certain  of  these  verses  given  me  by  The  Literary 
Digest,  Harvard  Illustrated  Magazine,  Vogue, 
Middletown  Forum,  Red  Letter,  Literary 
Review,  Boston  Transcript,  Town  Topics, 
Smart  Set,  The  New  York  Herald  and  other 
periodicals. 

G.  A.  E. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

I.  THE  RACE  OF  THE  MIGHTY  .  .       i 
II.  SONGS  &  SONNETS. 

Love  Beatified           .  .  .        9 

Morning,  Noon  and  Night  .  .10 

Dante          .              .  .  .11 

Love's  Blindness      .  .  .12 

Hesperides                  .  .  13 

My  Garden               .  .  .18 

Erinnerungen             .  .  19 

The  Battle  Royal     .  .  .20 

Espaiia         .  .  .     .          .21 

Love's  Fear               .  .  .22 

Longings      .              .  .  -23 

Horace,  IV,  8           .  .  -24 

Ricordatevi  Di  Me !  .  .26 

The  Tower               .  ,  .28 

Love's  Prayer           .  .  •     3o 


CONTENTS — Continued. 


PAGE. 


Combien  J'ai  Douce  Souvenance  .     31 

My  Little  Red  Devil  and  I  .  -33 

The  College  Pump  .              .  .37 

I  Disputant!              .              .  .     38 

Quand  Vous  Serez  Bien  Vieille  .     39 

One  Summer  Night                .  .     40 

A  Une  Fleurette      .              .  .     42 

Blest  Be  the  Day     .              .  -43 

Mignonne  Aliens  Voir  Si  La  Rose  .     44 

Religion       .              .              .  •     45 
The  Great  Woods  Were  Awakening     46 

I-N-R-I      .             .             .  .47 

Fayre  Robyn           • .              .  .48 

Coeur  de  Femme     .              .  51 

III.  BALLADES  &  RONDEAUX 

Ballade  of  the  Sick                 .  .     54 

Three     Rondeaux    from    Charles 

d'Orleans          .              .  .     56 

The  Song  of  the  Poor            .  .     59 

Kyrielle       .              .              .  .62 


CONTENTS — Continued. 

PAGE. 

Rondeau      .              .              .  .64 

When  I  First  Saw  Edmee     .  .     65 

My  Old  Coat           .             .  .66 

A  Pantoum               .              .  .68 

When  Doris  Deigns              .  .     70 

IV.  THE   YEAR 

Spring — May  Evening           .  72 

Summer — August  Rain         .  .     73 
Autumn — November  in  Cambridge    .     74 

Winter — Hampton  Holidays  .     75 

V.  MORS  OMNIUM  VICTOR 

Gunga  Din  in  Hell                .  .     78 

Cui  Bono  ?                .             .  •     79 

The  Bride-Bed         .              .  .     80 

Dead  Loves               .              .  .81 

Death  the  Friend     .              .  .82 

La  Jeune  Fille         .              .  -83 

Lucie           .             .             .  .84 

Luctus  in  Morte  Passeris      .  .     89 


CONTENTS — Continued. 


PAGE. 


Death  in  December  .  .     90 

The  Royal  Council  .  .92 

Carmen  Mortis         .  .  -93 


THE  RACE  OF  THE  MIGHTY 


The  Race  of  the  Mighty* 

THE  START 

THE  appointed  time  at  length  the  dials  show. 
"  Attention,  both! . .  .  Now,  are  you 
ready?...  Go!!" 

The  chauffeur  grips  his  lever  with  a  hand 
Of  steel. — A  leap! — A  flash  of  wheels!  A  grand 
And  supple  beast-like  spring! — A  growl  of  gear! 
As,  sweeping  through  the  multitudinous  sea 
Of  men  upraising  full-voiced  cheer  on  cheer, 
He  whirls  away  to  promised  victory!  .  . . 

ON  THE  ROAD 

The  high  road  stretches  straight  and  white 

Away 
To  dreamy  distance,  on  and  on — 

The  day 
Dawns  sharp  and  foggy;  nips  the  driver's 

Nose, 
Despite  his  costly  furs.     Zounds  !      How 

It  blows ! 

The  motor  purrs  ! — Our  mobile  seems 
To  fly, 

*  From  Gactan  de  Mcaulne's  "  Course  des  Grands  Masques."  Here 
reprinted  by  courteiy  of  the  New  York  "Herald."  To  this  translation 
was  awarded  the  Herald's  First  Prize  of  500  francs. 


Nor  touch  the  ground  .  .  .     (Pneumatic 

Mystery!) 
The  motor  purrs  ! — Farewell  wood,  field 

And  stream ! 
Once  on  the  road,  we've  scanty  time 

To  dream  ! 
The  motor  purrs  ! — Look  out !     A  sheer 

Decline. 
Temptation  whispers :   Faster  here  ! 

It's  fine ! 
Faster?     It's  madness  !    Yes,  I  know  ! — 

But  on ! 
Full  speed  down  hill !     Another  record 

Gone  ! .  . . 
The  driver  plunges  out  of  view  . .  . 

See,  there 
He  climbs  the  distant  slope  again. 

I  swear 
He'd  scale  Olympus  !     Yet  that  course 

Is  clear 
From  many  mishaps  that  beset 

Us  here ! 
We  crush  a  cursed  mongrel  in 

The  dust ! 


Slow  down  to  miss  an  English  spinster, 

Just 
Graze  by  her  on  her  clumsy,  ancient 

Wheel!— 
Rout  ducks  and  chickens,  set  the  pigs 

A-squeal ! 
It's  not  our  fault !     We  can't  be  kept 

All  day 
To  clear  the  road  ! . . .  Speed  on  ! — Away ! 

Away ! . . . 

THE  STRUGGLE 

But  hark!. . .  Behind,  a  trumpet-blast  winds  clear! 
Great  God!    Our  dread  competitor  draws  near; 
We'd  half  a  minute  start,  and  now,  like  Fate, 
He's  rushing  onward  to  annihilate 
Distance  and  time,  whirled  in  a  hurricane! 
Inexorably  we  see  him  gain  and  gain 

"Now1 — speed  her  up!"  the  boy  cries  out. 

"  More  speed  !  " 

"  The  cursed  motor's  gone  to  sleep  ! — Indeed, 
44 We're  hardly  doing  fifty  miles  an  hour. 
"But  he  won't  pass  us  yet  awhile!    More 

power!"  . . . 


The  driver  heeds ;  he  moves — the  furious  pace 
Grows  frenzied  !     Oh,   the  glory  of  a  race 
Like  this  of  modern  days,  with  steady  hand 
To  steer  a  whirlwind  through  a  startled  land ! 

THE  WATCHERS 

"  The  first  is  near  ! — Let  no  one  cross  ! — 

"Take  care  ! 
"  See  !     There  they  are  ! — Look  out !    The 

horn  !    Beware ! 
«  Stand  back  ! — They're  two  ! . . .  It's  Girardot ! 

No,  no ; 
"  It's  Charron    No,    it's  Levegh  ! — How  they 

blow 

"That  horn!"  . . .  But  who  can  hope  to  recognize 
Or  name  the  shrilling  bullet  in  its  flight  ? 
And  what  are  names  when  glory  blinds  the  eyes? 
The  towns  love  sport,  and  cheer ;  but,  half  in 

fright 

The  laboring  peasants  stop  their  ploughs  to  see 
This  avalanche — this  hurtling  mystery! 


THE  FINISH 

Untiring,  on  their  mounts  of  fire  and  steel, 
The    shielded    chauffeurs,   watchful,    hand    on 

wheel, 
Have    flashed    through    many  a  league; — have 

breathed  the  dust 

Of  devious  ways ;  have  skirted  wood  and  sea; 
Have  traversed  towns,  crossed  rivers,  hills  and 

dales ; — 

Nor  halted  once  !     To  learn  geography 
By  such  vast  lessons,  though  it  tire  the  flesh, 
Exalts  the  soul  and  makes  the  spirit  free. 
But  now  must  end  this  vast,  Titanic  race ! 
(It  cannot  last  forever !) — See  !     The  place 
Lies  there  !. . .  A  broad,  white  banner  bars  the  way, 
Between  two  lofty  poles  with  streamers  gay. 
The  "FINISH"  there  we  read.  The  end  at  last ! 
All  rest  and  glory,  once  that  goal  is  passed ! 
A  final  burst ! — The  driver  grips  the  bar  ! 
The  "FINISH  !"     In  the  road  he  sees  afar 
A  judge  with  solemn  air  attentive  stand, 
Waving  a  crimson  kerchief  in  his  hand. .  . 
"Stop!"     Harshly  grinds  the  brake — "What 

number's  this  ? " 
"  Your  name? " 

Recorded ! 

Apotheosis ! ! 


SONGS    &    SONNETS 


Love   Beatified. 


OVE,  slain  by  us  and  buried  yesterday, 
Rose  up  again,  nor  in  his  grave  would 
stay. 

On  his  earth-stained  brow  and  sightless  eyes 
Still  shone  the  splendours  of  our  Paradise. 

Hushed  was  each  dissonance,  every  fault  made 

clean, 
And  joys  .alone  I  saw,  that  might  have  been. 

It  never  seemed  our  Love  could  shew,  so  fair 
As  that  dead  Presence,  shrined  in  glory  there. 

I  would  not  have  our  Love  to  live  again, 

And  blend  each  pleasure  with  his  greater  pain. — 

Oh  better~far  this  blessed  death,  and  rest ! 
Dead  Love  I  clasp,  I  cherish  to  my  breast 
And  ever  shall,  for  this  I  know  is  best ! 


Morning,  Noon  and  Night. 

I   LOVE  thee  when  the  gates  of  eastern  light 
Are  opened  by  the  Morning-star,  aflame; 
I  love  thee  when  the  rose-red  heavens  pro 
claim 

The  coming  of  their  lord,  to  mortal  sight, 
And  cloudless,  when  from  his  imperial  height 
He  looks  in  glory  down.     I  breathe  thy  name 
With  thoughts  of  love,  when  drowsy  Noon  the 

same 

Poised,   equal   distance  holds,   twixt  dawn  and 
night. 

I  love  thee  when  the  West  begins  to  glow, 
And  when  the  restless  winds  lie  still  in  heaven; 
I  love  thee  when  the  deep'ning  shadows  fall, 
As  comes  with  Tyrian  dye,  soft,  purple  even; 
But  when,  from  out  the  waters,  rises  slow 
The  noiseless  Night,  I  love  thee  best  of  all. 


Dante. 

THOU'RT  but  a  pensive,  dreaming  Boy, 
when  first 
To    thy  sad    eyne  the  sight  of  Love 

appears 

With  blessed  Beatrice.     Nine  circling  years 
Name  thee  the  wounded  Lover,  whose    sweet 

thirst 

Is  never  sated,  nor  whose  fever  less. 
At  Campaldino  thou'rt  the  mailed  Knight ; 
Savage  to  spur  thy  City  on  toward  right 
Thou'rt  driven,  its  scape-goat,  to  the  wilderness. 

There,  in  the  stranger's  house  whose  stairs  are 

pain 

To  mount,  whose  bread  is  bitter  to  thy  mouth, 
Dawns  thy   Great  Vision,  mid   thy  soul's  last 

drouth ; 

And,  past  Hell's  flame  and  Purgatory's  round, 
Greets  thee  thy  love  most  gentle,  once  again, 
Thou  frowning  Florentine* with  laurels  crowned  ! 


ii 


Love's  Blindness. 


LOVE,  my  Love,  thou  canst    not 

know  how  sweet, 
How  dear  thou  art !  " — "  Naught 

would  I  know,  save  this 
That  thou  wilt  ever  yearn  to  share  my  kiss  ! 
So  being,  I  reck  not  whether  years  be  fleet 
Or  endless  !  " — "  But  thou  canst  not   see  thy 

face 

As  others  see  thee !     Thy  deep  eyes  that  greet 
Their  lucent-mirrored   glimmerings,   melt    and 

meet 
In  glory  there,  to  blind  themselves  a  space ! " 

"  Hush,  O  my  heart !     Thy  vain  hyperbole 
Means  naught ;  but  take  in  both  thy  hands  and 

turn 

To  thee  this  face  of  mine,  and  kiss  my  brow, 
And  after  that  mine  eyes  which  cannot  see 
But  only  feel  thy  lips  that  thrill,  and  now 
My  mouth,  and  now — O  God !  thy  kisses  burn  !" 


iz 


Hesperides, 


NOW  once  again  the  angry  sun 
Wheels  up  the  heaven  his  tireless  way ; 
Once  more  we  strangling  herds  of  men 
Wake  to  our  labours  never-done, 
Rise  up  to  toil  another  day. 
Down  flares  the  heat  on  town  and  street, 
Wide-warping  pillar,  span  and  plinth  ; 
Once  more  my  burning,  wearied  eyes 
Within  this  monstrous  labyrinth 
Meet  the  mad  heat  that  stifles  me, 
And  O,  my  baffled  spirit  flies 
In  dreams  to  thy  green  wood  and  thee, 
To  thee!...     To  thee  !... 


II 


My  pavement-wearied  feet  again 

Tread  the  rough  streets  whose  ways  are  pain, 

Hot  with  the  sun's  last  sullen  beam, 

And  yet — I  dream  ! 

Dream  when  I  wake,  and  at  high,  blinding  Noon, 

Or  when  the  moon 

Mocks  the  sad  City  in  her  sullen  night 

That  burns  too  bright ! 

So  sweet  my  visions  seem 

That  from  this  sordid  smoke  and  dust  I  turn, 

Turn  where  the  dim  Wood-world  calls  out  to  me 

And  where  the  forest-virgins  I  half  see 

With  green  mysterious  fingers  beckoning ! 


Where    vine-wreathed    woodland    altars    sunlit 

burn, 

Or  Dryads  weave  their  mystic  rounds  and  sing, 
Sing  high,  sing  low,  with  magic  cadences 
That  once  the  wild  oaks  of  Dodona  heard ; 
And  every  wood-note  bids  me  burst  asunder 
The  bonds  that  hold  me  from  the  leaf-hid  bird! 
I  quaff  thee,  O  Nepenthe  !     Ah,  the  wonder 
Grows  that  there  be  who  scorn  not  wealth  and 

ease, 
Who  still  will  choose  the  street-life,  rough  and 

blurred, 
Who  will  not  quest  you,  O  Hesperides !  .  .  . 


Ill 


And  now,  and  now.  .  .  I  feel  the  forest-moss ! 

O,  on  these  moss-beds  let  me  lie  with  Pan, 

Twined  with  the  ivy-vine  in  tendrilled  curls  ! 

And  I  will  hold  all  gold  that  hampers  man 

But  the  base  ashes  of  a  barren  dross  ! 

On  with  the  love-dance  of  the  pagan  girls  ! 

The  pagan  girls  with  lips  all  rosy-red, 

With  breasts  up-girt  and  foreheads  garlanded  ! 

With  fair  white  foreheads  nobly  garlanded ! 

With  sandalled  feet  that  weave  the  magic  ring 

Now  ...  let  them  sing, 

And  I  will  pipe  a  song  that  all  may  hear, 

To  bid  them  mind  the  time  of  my  wild  rhyme  ! 

Away  !     Away  !      Beware  our  mystic  trees  ! 

Who  will  not  quest  you,  O  Hesperides  ?  .  .  . 


16 


IV 

Great  men  of  song,  what  sing  ye  ?     Woodland 

meadows? 
Rocks,  trees  and  rills  where  sunlight  glints  to 

gold  ? 

Sing  ye  the  hills  adown  whose  sides  blue  shadows 
Creep  when  the  westering  day  is  growing  old  ? 
Sing  ye  the  brooks  where  in  the  purling  shallows 
The  small  fish  dart  and  gleam  ? 
Sing  ye  the  pale  green  tresses  of  the  willows 
That  stoop  to  kiss  the  stream  ? 

Or  sing  ye  burning  streets  and  sweating  toil 
Where  we  spawned  swarms  of  men,  unendingly, 
Above,  below,  in  mart  and  workshop's  moil 
Have  quite  forgot  thee,  O  mine  Arcady  ?   .   .  . 


My   Garden. 

With  a  copy  of  «'  Sonnets  of  thii  Century.' 


THIS    little    book,    a     Garden    where  the 
bloom 
And  fragrance  of  an  hundred  years  are 

pent, 

To  thee,  dear  girl,  at  Christmas-tide  is  sent 
By   one   who  breathes    with    love    the    sweet 

perfume 
Of  such     frail    flowers.        Let  aye  the  world 

consume 

Itself  with  toil  and  labour — such  are  all 
Without  the  bounds  of  this  my  garden-wall, 
And  I,  in   light,  feel  not  nor  heed  their  gloom. 

Come  thou    into  my  Garden  !       Let  me  show 
Thee  all  the  treasures  that  do  lend  it  grace, 
These  goodly  Sonnets,  standing  in  a  row 
To  tell  of  joy,  tears,  love, — life's  madrigal; 
And,  mistress  of  the  pure  enchanted  place, 
Be  thou  the  fairest  Flower  among  them  all !  . . . 


18 


Erinnerungen. 


SCHWER  ist  mein  Herz,  und  heute  kann 
ich  nicht 
Mehr  lesen — kann  nicht  denken,  leiden 

mehr. 

Aus  jeder  Ecke  kommt  ein  Schatten  her, 
Wie  aus  dem  toten  Himmel  geht  das  Licht. 
Ich  sinn'  und  sinn' — iche  sehe  ihn  noch,  wie  er 
Vor  langen  Jahren  zartlich  schaut'  mich  an 
Eh'  unsere  reine  Liebe  erst  begann 
Langsam  zu  sterben,  ich  zu  trauern  sehr.  .  . 

Schwer  ist  mein  Herz.     Aus  seinen  Ecken  auch 
Kriechen   die  Schatten,  schnell  und 

schneller.     Jetzt 

Vernimmt  mein  miidcs  Ohr  den  ersten  Hauch 
Der  Winternacht  .  .  .  Es  glimmert  Strom  und 

Wald 

In  dunkler  Feme  .  .  .  Dies  vergeht  zuletzt, 
Und  alles  endlich  finster  ist  und  kalt. 


The   Battle   Royal. 


THOU  Battle^Royal !   Kings  and  gentlemen 
At  arms,  and  lords  have   fought   thee 

since  the  mists 

Of  time,  back-rolling,  show'd  thy  mimic  lists 
And  pigmy  warriors,  mazed  and  harried  then 
As  now  in  meshes  of  thy  checkered  strife — 
Unshielded  Pawns,  trim  Knights  and  frowning 

Rooks 

Stolid  yet  quick,  and  Bishops  smug,  with  looks 
A-squint,  and  King  with  lame  yet  endless  life. 

Thou  Battle  Royal !     Years  unnumbered  soil 
Cards,  draughts  and  dice  with  myrid  grime-worn 

hands. 

Thou,  lov'd  by  dames  and  lords  in  all  the  lands 
Of  this  broad  world  art  still  the  world's  best 

play; 

Where,  as  in  life,  whilst  others  struggle,  toil, 
And  die,  the  imperious  Queen  controls  the  day  ! 


20 


Espafia. 


"  Que  era,  decidme,  la  nacion  que  un  dia 
Reina  del  tnundo  proclamo  el  destine  ?    .    .    . 

Quintana — Oda  a  Elf  ana. 


WHERE  now  that  Nation  proud  which 
Destiny 
Once     did      proclaim     this    world's 

all  conquering  queen  ? 

Where  now  that  sceptre,  that  bright  blazon  seen 
That  mark'd  her  mistress  over  land  and  sea  ? 
A  lost  emprise,  a  shattered  galleon  she, 
Sails  rent  and  hull  agape  that  once  have  been 
World-powerful ;  her  rotting  masts  careen 
With  each  dark  surge  of  long-pent  enmity. 

On    through    sea's    salty  wastes    the    tempests 

spurn, 
The  waves  rebuff  her;     lights  no   more  there 

gleam 

Nor  vergies  wave  on  her  high  carven  beam. 
Stilled  is  the  sailor's  jest,  the  skipper's  song ; 
In  swirling  fogs  of  night  she  drives  along 
With    Helmsman     Death     stark-frozen   at  the 

stern!.... 


21 


Love's   Fear. 

"T  TIRGIN  art  thou  and  pure,  amid  a  throng 
V        Of  such  sweet  hallowed  names  as  all 

men  praise. 

(Grown  all  too  scant  in  these  our  latter  days !) 
To  holy  hours  of  old  dost  thou  belong ; 
Saint  Agnes  then  had  heard  thine  even-song, 
Nor  left  thee,  darkling,  in  Earth's  devious  ways. 
Thou'rt  one  with  that  sweet  sisterhood  which 

raise 
To     "  untouched    Dian,"     all    clear    streams 

along, 
Their    full-voiced     anthem.     Thou    a    Vestal 

art 

At  true-love's  altar.     Atala,  and  the  Maid, 
And  Mary  all  are  sisters  of  thy  blood  ! 
Thy  very  name  is  virgin  !...!,  afraid, 
How  shall  I  press  my  kisses  on  thy  heart, 
Or  loose  the  girdle  of  thy  maidenhood  ?  .  .  . 


Longings. 


"...  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nell  a  miseria.  .  ." 

Inferno,  Vt  121. 

FAR  from  the  sea-girt  City  that  I  love, 
My  wandering  ways    by    care  attended 

lie; 

Cold  is  the  azure  of  this  foreign  sky, 
And    strange  these    clustered    stars    that   burn 

above. 

Out  from  this  loveless  land  would  I  remove 
To  seek  thy  spring  Pierian,  never-dry, 
Thou  thrice-crowned  City  !      Hear  my  fainting 

cry. 

Let  not  my  passionate  longing  fruitless  prove ! 
Would  I  once   more  might  see    the  dome  of 

gold 

Burning  aloft,  beneath  my  native  sky ! 
The  river,  winding  near  my  home  of  old, 
And  once  again  to  breathe  before  I  die, 
The  evening  breeze,  may  it  be  granted  me, 
In  that  fair  city  by  the  distant  sea !  ... 


The  Eighth  Ode  of  the  Fourth 
Book  of  Horace. 

To  C.  MARTIUS  CENSORINUS. 

"Donarem  pateras  grataque  commodus.    .    .  " 

FREELY  to  my  companions  would  I  give 
Beautiful  bronzes,  Censorinus,  bowls 
And  tripods,  once  a  guerdon  to  the  souls 
Of   hardy    Greeks;     nor    should'st    thou    bear 

away 

The  meanest  of  my  gifts,  could  I  but  live 
Possessed  of  arts  like  those  Parrhasius  plied, 
Or  Skopas,  now  depicting  human  clay 
And  now  a  god,  in  liquid  colors  one 
In  solid  stone  the  other.     But  denied 
To  me  are  equal  powers ;  need  hast  thou  none 
In  mind  or  state  for  treasures  like  to  these. 
Thou  dost  delight  in  songs,  and  such  are  mine 
To  give,  and  fix  a  value  to  each  song. 
Not  marbles  carved  with  public  elegies, 
Whence  to  illustrious  leaders  still  belong 
In  dreamless  death  their  praises  half  divine, 
Not  the  precipitate  flights  of  Hannibal 


Nor  those   retorted   threats   that  wrought    him 

shame, 

Not  impious  Carthage  and  her  flaming  fall 
More  highly  show,  than  the  Calabrian  Muse, 
Glories  of  him  who,  having  gained  a  name 
From  prostrate  conquered  Africa,  returned. 
Neither  if  writings  should  perchance  refuse 
To  herald  forth  what  thou  so  well  hast  earned 
Wouldst  thou  have  fitting  praise.     What  were 

the  son 

Of  Mars  and  Ilia,  if  in  jealousy 
Silence  had  drowned  those  lofty  merits  won 
By    Romulus  ?     Through    eloquence,    through 

strength 

And  favor  of  all  poets  loved  of  fame, 
Aeacus  hallowed  is,  from  Stygian  floods, 
To  the  fair  Islands  of  the  Blest  at  length. 

The  Muse  forbids  the  worthy  man  to  die ; 
She  blesseth  him  with  Heaven.    Thus  Hercules, 
Untiring  victor,  finds  a  place  on  high 
At  Jove's  desired  feasts.     Tyndareus'  sons, 
Clear-shining  stars,  thus  from  the  deepest  seas 
Rescue  the  shattered  ships.    Thus  Bacchus  fair, 
Twining   his    temples    with    fresh    vine-leaves 

green, 
To  fruitful  issue  brings  the  votaries'  prayer. 


Ricordatevi  Di  Me 


(  Terza  Rim  a. ) 

IF  ever  thou  shouldst  cease  to  think  of  me 
With    love,   and    turn    thy    soul's    sweet 

warmth  to  ice — 

(Stop  not  my  mouth  with  kisses !     Change 
may  be, 

As  all  do  know  who  take  for  their  device 
A  bleeding  heart !) — If  any  change  should  seal 
To  me  the  gates  of  uttermost  Paradise, 

And  I  should  darkling  fare,  with  no  repeal, 
In  company  of  them,  that,  love  forsaken, 
Before  cold  shrines  and  at  dead  altars  kneel, 

Remember  this — I  bade  thy  heart  awaken ; 
Here  in  this  hand  it  lay  a  prisoner ! 

Thy  first  wild  love-kiss    from  my  lips  was 
taken, 

And  with  my  breath  thy  first  sighs  mingled 

were! 

Remember  this — I  loved  thee  well  and  long, 
Thou  haven  to  me,  a  time-worn  wanderer  ! 

26 


Then,  though  my  voice  be  drowned  in  that 

clear  song 
Of  thy  new  love,  and  I  forgotten  be 

Or  all-despised,  think  thou  in  my  wrong 

Some  good  there  was,  some  truth  akin  with 

thee, 

Some  light  half-seen,  since  I  could  tune  a  soul 
Virgin  as  thine  to  perfect  harmony, 

And    crown    thy    brow  with    I/ove's    pure 
aureole  ! 


The  Tower. 


I 


THERE  lies  a  City  of  Unnumbered  Dead 
Where  paths  entwine,  where  hills  and 

valleys  be, 

And  still,  black  pools ;  the  cypress  mystically 
Shrouds  those  dark  ways.     There  living  souls 

may  tread 
With  but   slow   steps  and  rare.       With    slow 

steps,  led 

By  Love  two  lovers  passed ;  they  spake,  and  she 
Cast  down  her  mystic  eyes  lest  he  might  see 
In  their  vague  depths  the  image  of  her  dread. 

A  great  round-tower  of  granite  crowns  that  land. 
Thither  they  came,  and  now  her  starry  eyes 
Were  raised  to  his ;  that  dread  which  wrought 

them  ill 

Behind  them  with  the  frozen  dead  lay  chill. 
Up  the  enchanted  stairway  hand  in  hand 
They  passed,  and  issued  forth  to  see  the  skies. 


28 


II 


And  yet  their  sweetest  moment  did  not  seem 

That  dizzying  issue  into  tenuous  light, 

Where  the  keen  salt-sea  wind  that  lashed  their 

height 
Drowned  their   love-quickened   breath  as  in  a 

stream 

Of  chill,  on-rushing  aether;  not  the  gleam 
Of  multitudinous  Ocean,  nor  the  bright 
Expanse    of   Earth    could    draw   their   dazzled 

sight 
From  the  new  glory  of  their  passionate  dream. 

It  was  upon  the  tower's  midmost  stair 
At  one  dim  diamond-window ;  both  beguiled 
Paused  in  the  gloom ;  she  trembled  like  a  child ; 
His  hot  mouth  found  her  mouth,  her  gold-twined 

hair, 
And   in  her  milk-white  breast  her    heart  beat 

wild 
Beneath  one  burning  kiss  he  printed  there. 


29 


Love's    Prayer. 


WHEN  thy    ripe  lips  in  kisses  mould  to 
meet 

Mine  eager  mouth — when    thy    full 
pulsing  throat 
Throbs  with  thy  quickening  life-breath — when 

the  float 

And  tangle  of  thine  ungirt  hair,  oh  Sweet, 
Entwines  us,  breast  to  breast,  the  perfumed  heat 
Of  each  wild  sigh  fans  all  my  face  aflame, 
And  beat  to  beat  our  passionate  hearts  the  same 
Responses  cry,  as  we  Love's  creed  repeat. 

When  in  each  other's  arms,  love-wearied,  we 
Both  nested  safe  in  silken  cushions  warm 

At  Winter-evenfall  entranced  lie, 
Kissing  but  closer  as  we  list  the  storm, 
Then  pray  we,  midst  our  sweet  antiphony 
But  this — that  love  like  ours  may  never  die  !  .  .  . 


"  Combien   J'ai    Douce   Sou- 
venance.   .   .   ! 

{After  Chateaubriand} 

OH  sweet,  how  sweet  old  memories  be 
Of  one  most  lovely  place,  to  me — 
My  birthplace  !     Sister,  fair  those  days 
And  free  ! 

Oh  France,  be  thou  my  love,  my  praise 
Always  ! 

Our  mother — hath  thy  memory  flown  ? — 
Beside  our  humble  chimney-stone 
Pressed  us  against  her  heart,  whilst  you, 

Dear  one, 
And  I  her  white  hair  kissed  anew, 

We  two. 

Sweet  little  sister,  dost  recall 

The  stream  that  bathed  the  castle-wall  ? 

The  old  round-tower  whence  came  alway 

The  call 
Of  bells  to  banish  night  away 

At  day? 


Dost  thou  recall  the  lake — how  still  ! — 
Where  swallows  skimmed  at  their  sweet  will  ? 
The  reeds,  swayed  by  the  gentle  air 

Until 
The  sun  set  on  the  waters  there, 

So  fair  ? 

Oh,  who  will  give  me  my  Helene  ? 
My  mountains,  my  great  oak  again  ? 
Their  memory  brings  with  all  my  days 

Fresh  pain ; 
My  land  shall  be  my  love,  my  praise 

Always  ! 


My  Little  Red  Devil  and  I. 

'•  The  Prince  of  Darkness  is  a  gentleman." 

Twelfth  Night. 

MY  little  Red  Devil  upon  my  desk 
With  a  smile  sardonic  stands. 
He  holds  my  pen  with  a  patient  air 
In  his  crooked,  outstretched  hands; 
The  paint  is  worn  from  his  hoof  and  horn 
And  scratched  is  his  curving  tail, 
Yet  he  still  holds  on  with  a  right  good  grace, 
A  knowing  look  on  his  crafty  face, 
And  spirits  that  never  fail. 

So,  what  if  his  fingers  are  some  of  them  gone, 

And  twisted  the  horns  on  his  head  ? 

His  cheek  still  glows,  and  his  aquiline  nose 

Is  a  genuine  devilish  red ; 

And  his  tail,  beside,  is  a  thing  of  pride, 

For  it  swings  in  a  glorious  sweep, 

With  a  graceful  bend  and  a  fork  in  the  end 

That  would  cause  a  sinner  his  ways  to  mend, 

Or  a  saint,  his  vows  to  keep  ! 


Though  only  a  single  eye  has  he 

The  world  and  the  flesh  to  view, 

(For  the  right  is  gone,)  yet  the  other  one 

Has  fire  enough  for  two. 

So  his  eyes  ill-mated  an  air  jocund 

To  his  wrinkled  features  lend, 

And  to  see  his  look  you  would  almost  think 

That  he  was  tipping  a  devilish  wink 

To  his  old,  familiar  friend. 

Oh,  he  is  a  jolly  good  fellow,  in  truth, 

With  a  wit  that  is  ever  new, 

And  a  heart  like  which,  in  this  world  of  ours, 

There  are  only,  I  fear,  too  few. 

And  he  doesn't  complain  when  I  come  in  late 

Or  keep  him  awake  o'  nights, 

So  I  have  respect  for  his  comfort,  too, 

By  giving  the  Devil  his  utmost  due, 

And  the  whole  of  his  royal  rights. 


34 


To  everyone  else  but  myself  his  smile 

Is  fixed  as  the  solid  stone ; 

He  changes  the  curve  of  his  parted  lips 

For  me,  and  for  me  alone. 

So  when  I'm  in  luck  he  wishes  me  joy 

With  his  whole  Satanic  heart, 

But  when  I've  the  blues,  it  seems  he  would  say 

" Brace  up,  for  the   luck    will  be  better  some 

day ! " 
And  my  cares  like  the  wind  depart. 

So  my  Devil  and  I  are  the  best  of  friends 

In  a  sort  of  a  cynical  way, 

For  he  watches  me  out  of  his  only  eye 

As  I  work  at  my  desk  each  day, 

And  the  idle  verses  I  write  in  hope, 

He  quietly  smiles  to  see, 

For  he  knows  full  well  that  at  first  or  last, 

Like  Biblical  bread  on  the  waters  cast, 

They  will  surely  come  back  to  me.  .  . 


And  at  night,  as  I  sit  by  the  ruddy  hearth, 

With  my  pipe  and  my  book,  alone, 

Or  lazily  muse  by  the  embers  red 

When  the  light  of  the  fire  is  gone, 

I  think  of  him    sometimes,    and    hope  in  my 

heart 

I  never  shall  see  the  day 
That  sets  me  adrift  from  my  little  friend 
And  puts  to  our  sociable  life  an  end, 
By  taking  my  Devil  away  ! .  .  . 


The   College   Pump. 

IN  Summertide,  beneath  high-vaulted  shade, 
In  Winter,  frosted  all  with  glistering  rime, 
In  chanting  Spring,  or  Autumn's  sullen  time 
When  sodden  leaves  their  tawny  beds  have 

made — 

Alike  when  spendthrift  Sun  his  gold  afar 
Downthrows,  or  earth  lies  shrouded  all  in  cold, 
By  evil  men  and  good,  by  young,  by  old, 
In  every  season  blessed  thy  waters  are. 

Grandsires  and   children  drink  with  solaced 

eyes. 

Dazed  revellers  early  come  with  thirsty  shame 
Beneath  gray  glimmering  of  the  sober  skies. 
All  day  men  pause ;  and  some,  at  eventide, 
Poets,  have  hallowed  with  their  touch  thy  name, 
And  with  their  lips  thy  waters  sanctified. 


37 


I  Disputant!. 


LA  MIA  RAGIONE  scnto  disputare 
Col  Core  sempre — "Dopo  crudel  Morte," 
L'una  dice,  "  con  la  sua  man  si  forte 
II  lume  della  vita  spegni,  io  andare 
Nel  Buio  credo  . . ."    L'altro  poi ;    "Amare 
£  non  morir.     II  mio  alto  Fattore 
Non  puo  voler  che  questo  dolce  fiore 
Del  mio  affetto  muoia  .  .  ."     "Io  parlare 
Del  'Credo'  tuo  non  so ;  ma  non  c'e  vita 
Futura  non  c'e  Dio.     La  Cagione 
£  1'Caso,  solamente  .  . ."     "£  1'Amore, 
L'Amore,  quella  via  giammai  smarrita, 
Perduta  mai . .  ."     Sempre  cosi  col  Core 
Io  sento  disputar  la  mia  Ragione  .  .  . 


"Quand    Vous    Sercz    Bien 
Vieille..."      Rongard. 

THOU   (being  sometime  old),  by  candle- 
light 
Close  crouched  by  the  fire,  spinning  and 

mumbling  o'er 
The  past,  shalt    croon    my  verses,   marvelling 

more 
That  Ronsard  sang  thy  praise,  what  time  thy 

bright 

First  beauty  was.     Then,  hearing  thee  recite 
Such  thing,  thy  drowsy  maid,  though  weary-sore 
And  nodding  off  to  sleep,  shall  wake  before 
My  name  and  thine,  with  blessings  infinite. 

I  under  earth  shall  be,  a  soul  in  vain 
Seeking  its  rest  where  myrtle  shadows  play ; 
Thou  by  the  hearthstone  cringe,  outworn  and 

blear, 

My  love  regretting  and  thy  cold  disdain. 
Live  !  an  thou  hear'st  me  !   Wait  no  other  day  ! 
Gather  life's  roses  ere  thy  night  be  near ! 


39 


One  Summer  Night. 

The  Fens,  June,  1897. 

FAR  in  the  west  the  crescent  moon  hung 
low, 

A  filmy  haze  about  it  faintly  spread, 
And  one  bright  star,  a  point  of  silver  light 
Seem'd  comrade  to  it.     Whispering  Zephyrus 
Tender  as  love,  stole  through  the  list'ning  leaves, 
Making  a  pleasant  murmur  in  the  night, 
And   touched   the   glimmering  waters  with  his 

breath. 

The  ripples  came  unnumbered  to  the  shore, 
Soft-murmuring  through    the  sedge  and  fenny 

reeds 
With  that  same  whisp'ring  voice  that  Pan  once 

heard 
What  time  he  first  made  pipes  to  sound  the 

praise 

Of  her  whom  he  had  lost.     The  water's  breast 
Was  banded  with  a  path  of  shimmering  light 
Broken  by  the  ever-restless  waves,  which  made 
A  thousand  points  of  liquid  brilliancy. 


40 


And  in  the  beauty  of  still,  hallowed  night 
Beside  the  plashing  sandy  shore,  we  met 
In  happiness.     Each  whispering  of  the  wind, 
Each    tremulous    leaf,  and   even    the    sleeping 

flowers 

Seem'd  breathing  "Love"  in  tender  unison, 
And  the  sphered  star  in  Heaven  sang  that  word. 

Dost  thou  remember  how  from  out  the  grass, 
I  plucked  a  gentle  flow'ret  by  that  shore, 
— Anemone  some  call  it,  wind-flower  some, 
Sprung  from  the  crimson  of  Adonis'  blood 
Where  he  was  slain, — and  how  I  softly  said, 
"O  thou  beloved,  beauty  is  a  rose 
Growing  in  Life's  fair  garden,  by  the  spring 
Of  deathless  Purity,  and  that  clear  dew 
Which  lies  within  its  sweetness  hid,  is  Love." 

Dost  thou  recall?     And  so  it  chance,  I  pray 
Though  we  be  parted,  now  and  evermore, 
Think  sometimes  of  that  night,  and  fancy  still 
We  see  the  summer  landscape,  glimmering, 
Lit  by  the  steady-burning  lights  of  heaven, 
We  scent  the  sweetness  of  the  warm  young 

night, 

We  hold  the  tender  wind-flower,  and  still  hear 
The  murmuring  ripples  on  the  sounding  shore. 


A  Une  Fleurette 


FLEURETTE!  Sur  sa  poitrine  si  blanche 
et  belle 
Combien  sens-tu  de  joie !   Quel  in  sense  bon 

heur 

Que  de  t'y  prelasser  doucement  toute  une  heure ! 
Sur  ses  seins  arrondis,  la,  serree  tout  centre  elle, 
Tu  respires  son  etre.     Une  volupte  telle 
Que  moi  j'en  sentirais,  la,  si  pres  de  son  cocur, 
Sur  ces  deux  petits  monts  de  neige,  heureuse 

fleur 

Tu  ressens . . .     Ta  mort,  meme,  6  fleurette, 
est  un  ciel ! 

Dieu !  Que  je  suis  las  de  tout  ce  monde  de 

peine 

Et  de  ses  vanites  et  de  ses  maux !  Toujours 
Te  veut  mon  ame  inquiete.     Donne-moi  6 

Reine 

Du  royaume  desert  de  mon  coeur,  mes  amours, 
Comme  a  cette  fleurette  ta  poitrine  aimee 
Pour  y  dormir  toujours,  a  toute  eternite ! . . . 


Blest  Be  the  Day. 

THE  XXXIXTH  SONNET 

OF  PETRARCH 
TO  HIS  LADY  LAURA. 

He  blesseth  all  the  divert  cautet  and  effects  of  hit  lore  toward  her. 

BLEST  be  the  day,  the  season  and  the  year 
The  hour  and  moment,  and  the  countrie 

fair, 

Ay,  even  that  very  spot  and  instant  where 
Those  two  sweet  eyne  did  first  to  me  appear 
Which  since  have  left  me — yet  that  sorrow 

dear 

Of  Love  still  blessed  be,  like  asthe  bow 
And    shafts   wherewith  sweet  Love   did  work 

me  woe 

With  wounds  most  deep  in  this  my  bosom 
here. 

Blest  be  the  many  voices  wherewithal 

I  on  my  Lady's  well-beloved  name 

Have  called,  and  blest  the  sighs,  the  tears,  the 

flame 

Of  my  desire,  and  all  my  screeds  designed 
To  praise  her — yet  most  blest  my  thoughts  I 

call, 
So  hers  that  none  but  she  may  entrance  find. . . 


43 


"Mignonne  Aliens  Voir  Si  La 
Rose...." 

After  Ronsard. 

COME,  sweet,  away  !     Come  see  the  rose, 
Now  that  the  day  draws  near  its  close, 

See  whether  it  be  faded  grown — 
Whether  at  evening  fall  away 
Those  leaves  that  opened  to  the  day, 

Or  dies  their  blush,  so  like  thine  own. 

Thou  seest,  dear  love,  its  beauties  pass, 
Its  wasted  petals  fall,  alas  !, 

In  one  short  hour.     It  may  not  bide. 
Unkind  in  truth  is  Mother  Earth 
Since  dawn  gives  such  a  flower  its  birth 

And  Death  draws  nigh  at  eventide. 

So,  sweet  my  darling,  hear  my  voice, 
I  bid  thee,  in  thy  youth,  rejoice  ! 

Before  thy  fragile  petals  close 
Gather  thy  blossoms  whilst  thou  may, 
With  time  they  fall  and  fade  away 

As  droops  at  night  the  withered  rose. 


44 


Religion. 


FROM   that  crude  savage  who,  on  Libyan 
sands, 

Graves  his  barbaric  god,  and  kneels  thereto ; 
From  those  mysterious,  matriarchal  bands, 
Eating  strange  flesh  their  spirit  to  renew 
With  fabled  ancestors;  from  Austral  lands 
To  Hyperborean  solitudes,  each  age 
Hath  sought  to  fend  its  head  from  God's  dull 

rage 

And  stay  the    cosmic    circling  with  clasped 
hands. 

Yea,  we  no  less  !    Doth  man  dare  look  away 
Bravely  as  fits  a  man  ?      With  fear-sealed  eyes, 
Filling  the  spheres  with  vast,  vague  mysteries, 
Man  still  must  hearken   some  great  angel's 

wing, 

Still  bow  to  man-made  God,  still  seek  to  stay 
With  clasped  hands  the  cosmic  circling  . . . 


45 


The  Great  Woods  Were 
Awakening. 

"Lei  grandt  boii  s'eyeillaient  j  il  faliait  jour  a  peine.  .   .   " 

Pradel. 

THE  great  woods  were  awakening.    A  new 
day 
Was    freshly    born;    enchanted    birds 

among 

The  clear  green  foliage  raised  their  matin  song 
To  praise  the  morning-glow.     Thought-sad  I 

lay 

Beneath  a  gnarled  oak j  despite  that  gay 
Fresh  springtide,  all  my  soul  was  suffering. 
I  waited  her,  and  lo  !  the  rapid  wing 
Of  fluttering  footsteps  brushed  the  dew  away. 

Drunken  with  pleasure  in  a  long-locked  kiss 
Our  breath  enmingled.    Tightening  in  my  arms 
That  beautiful,  supple  form,  her  heart's  alarms 
I  stifled  on  my  heart.     The  thicket  drew 
Close  over  us,  the  sun  grew  dark,  I  wis, 
Earth  faded,  Heaven  opened  to  our  view.  .  . 


I-N-R-I. 

WITH  bleeding  brows  beneath  a  thorn- 
meshed  crown, 
With  swollen  hands  fast  bound  in  leathern 

thong, 

I  saw  One  stand  amid  a  surging  throng 
That  spat  on  Him  and  strove  to  drag  Him  down. 
On  His  bowed  back  the  ridg'd  welts  scarlet  lay 
Traced  long  with  bloody  dew.     His  haggard  face 
Was  streaked  with  sweat  and  blood,  as  in  that 

place 

He  silent  stood  and  silent  gazed  away. 
Once  more  that  One  I  saw,  still  garlanded 
With  mocking  thorns.     Through  either  bleed 
ing  hand 

And  through  both  patient  feet  a  mangling  nail 
Was  driven  deep.     Some  cursed,  some  laughed, 

cried  "Hail, 
God  crucified !  . . ."     And  some  crouched  low  in 

dread 

And  wept,   and  thunderous  darkness  filled  the 
land . . . 


Fayre  Robyn.' 


FAYRE  ROBYN  he  rad  owre  the  brae, 
Hys  steede  he  was  a  wighty  browne  j 
The  countrie  a'  lay  at  hys  back, 
Hys  eyen  were  to  the  toune. 

Bauld  Robyn  owre  the  brae  did  ride, 
Nor  yet  a  Horde  nor  yerle  was  he, 
But  mae  than  ony  nobleman 

Hys  fayreness  was  to  see. 

And  Robyn  rad  adoun  the  brae, 
And  cam  yth  High  Strete ; 
A  gentil  pace  hys  horse  hadde 

Whych  was  baith  goode  and  meete. 

The  ShyrefPs  dauter  sate  yth  wane 
And  luikt  out  o'  the  window  round, 
Therebye  Robyn  rad  and  sang, 

A  braw  and  pleasant  sound. 


*This  North  Country  ballad  probably  dates  from  about  1525.  It 
was  found  in  a  fragmentary  condition  in  a  copy  of  the  1684  edition 
of  Abraham  Cowley's  Poetical  Works,  and  is  here  for  the  first 
time  completed  and  made  public. 

48 


She  luikt  upon  hys  goodely  forme 
He  luikt  a'  in  hir  deepe  blue  yee ; 
Robyn  doft  hys  bonnet ;  a  rose  to  hym 

She  dropit  for  replye. 

Leeve  may  o  meete  me  bye  the  yett, 
And  a'  taegither  we  will  flie. 
I'll  meete  thee  when  the  nyghte  be  com, 

So  ryde  again  soone  bye. 

She's  met  hym  when  the  nyghte  was  com, 
And  a'  taegither  they  hae  fled, 
Now  gin  the  ShyrefF  com,  most  sure 

They  maun  baith  be  dead. 

The  hae  na  gane  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league  nor  barely  ane, 
When  Robyn  saith  now  by  my  bloode 

They're  reasin  a'  the  toon. 

They  hae  na  gane  anither  league, 
A  league  nor  barely  twa, 
When  they  do  heare  a  not  ffar  off 

Some  bernes  that  them  pursue. 

The  be  com  unto  a  great  roke ; 
Ye  faith  it  was  baith  deepe  and  wide. 
The  ShyrefFs  bernes  byn  sonygh 

The  maun  plunge  them  in  the  tyde. 


49 


They've  plunged  them  in  the  cauld  water, 
The  spait  was  ful  swift  bye ; 
Now  byr  Ladye,  quoth  the  may, 

Methinks  we  baith  maun  dee. 

They've  plunged  them  into  the  cauld  roke ; 
The  hors  they  rade  sank  doun. 
A'  yth  black  water  then 

The  baith  were  neere  to  droune. 

He  bare  hir  firme  in  hys  left  arme 
And  swam  a'  wi'  his  right : 
When  the  cam  to  yearth  againe 

The  bernes  byn  in  sight. 

The  bernes  rad  the  roke  along 
And  saw  Robyn's  bonnet  on  the  tide. 
Now  be  the  baith  to  bottom  gane, 

Ther  may  the  bide  ! 

The  Shyreff  turned  him  home  again, 
Turned  back  and  went  awaie, 
But  Robyn  and  His  Ladye  ffayre 

Were  wed  the  nextin  daye. 


Coeur  de    Femme. 


1  CANNOT  think  that  woman  love  as  we 
Love  them,  with  soul  and  body,  breath  and 

blood, 

And  spent  soul  tortured  in  the  strangling  flood 
Of  passion's  tense  oblivious  agony ; 
I  cannot  think  the  kiss  She  gives  to  me 
Thrills  her  white  body  as  it  pulses  mine, 
Or  in  Love's  chalice  of  ambrosial  wine 
She  drowns  all  things  which  were  or  are  to  be. 

We   please  them  with  our  smile,  for  they  are 

vain 

And  Love  a  flatterer  is ;  they  joy  to  fling 
A  rose-entwined  leash  about  their  slave ; 
Purple  and  gold  they  take,  and  winnowed  grain 
Of  gems   from   Hesperus'    isle, — all   men   will 

bring ; 
But  Lave — lies  bleeding  by  a  woman's  grave! 


BALLADES   &  RONDEAUX 


Ballade  of  the  Sick. 


CAN   these   be    men,  that   lie    so   still,  so 
white  ? 

Whose    hopeless    eyes   yearn  things  they 

cannot  say  ? 

Who  scarce  can  part  the  daytime  from  the  night 
Save  that  the  night  drags  heavier  than  the  day  ? 
Have  these  a  listening  God,  to  whom  they  pray  ? 
God  hears  not  such,  nor  cares,  right  well  know  I, 
For  nameless  things  I  learn  through  long  delay, 
On  this  strait  bed  where  I  perforce  must  lie. 
I  learn  of  life-in-death ;  I  learn  the  blight 
Of  seeing  my  soul  and  body  slow  decay, 
Hemmed  in  with  white-walled  nothingness.    The 

flight 

Of  vagrant  flies,  the  sunlight's  sluggish  way 
Of  crawling  on — yes,  even  the  shadows  gray 
Help  tease  the  laggard  moments  loathly  by. 
Since  great  are  none,  small  things  my  pain  allay 
On  this  strait  bed  where  I  perforce  must  lie. 


I  learn  to  see,  nor  shrink  from  any  sight. 
That  deathmask  yonder — carrion  mass  of  clay — 
Hath  but  a  bleeding  scrap  of  lung,  to  fight 
The  ghastly  death  that  knows  nor  truce  nor  stay. 
The  Polack,  old  through  pains  that  tear  and  flay, 
Will  go  next  sennight — how  these  swart  folk 

die! 

Last  week  they  found  one,  waxen-cold  for  aye, 
On  this  strait  bed  where  I  perforce  must  lie. 

ENVOY 

"  This  too  will  pass  !  "  my  comfort  be  alway. 
Hell  is  forgot  of  them  that  chant  on  high ; 
Yet  have  I  seen  such  things  no  man  should  say, 
On  this  strait  bed  where  I  perforce  must  lie  ... 


55 


Three  Rondeaux  from  Charles 
d'Orleans. 

I. 

LE  TEMPS  A  LAISSlfi  SON  MANTEAU. 

YE  TIME  hath  lefte  his  mantle  fall 
Of  biting  windes  and  cold  and  rain, 
And  well  hath  dight  himself  again 
In  sunlight  shining  cleare  on  all ; 

Creatures  be  none,  nor  birds,  but  call 
One  to  another  their  own  refrain  : 
Ye  time  hath  lefte  his  mantle  fall 

Of  biting  windes  and  cold  and  rain. 

Fountaines  and  brooks  moste  musical 
Their  fayrest  dress  to  wear  be  fain ; 
With  silvern  drops  and  golde,  amain, 

Each  newlie  decks  hymself  withall; 

Ye  time  hath  lefte  his  mantle  fall. 


II. 


DIEU!     QU'IL     LA     FAIT     BON     RE- 
GARDER! 

Ye  Gods!   How  good  on  her  to  gaze, 
All-gracious,  fayre  and  sweet  of  mien  ; 
Such  virtues  be  in  her  y-seen 

All  men  stand  ready  with  their  praise. 

Who  then  could  weary  of  her  ways  ? 

Her  beautie  flowereth  ever  green  ; 

Ye  Gods !  How  good  on  her  to  gaze, 
All-gracious,  fayre  and  sweet  of  mien. 

This  side  or  yon  of  Ocean's  maze 
Nor  dame  nor  damozel,  I  ween 
So  wholly  parfaict  yet  hath  been — 
A  dream,  to  think  on  her  always: 
Ye  Gods !   How  good  on  her  to  gaze ! .  . . 


57 


III. 


LES  FOURRIERS  D'ESTE  SONT  VENUS. 

Ye  maides  in  waiting  all  be  here 
Of  Summertide,  to  deck  her  hall, 
To  hang  her  arras,  woven  all 
With  golden  flowers  and  verdure  clear; 

To  stretch  her  carpet  far  and  near 
Of  soft  green  moss  o'er  stone  and  wall; 
Ye  maides  in  waiting  all  be  here 
Of  Summertide,  to  deck  her  hall. 

Hearts  that  but  late  were  cold  and  drear 
Now  (prais'd  be  God!),  their  joy  recall ; 
Come,  come  away,  with  snow-wrapped  pall! 
Out  on  thee,  Winter,  old  and  blear! 
Ye  maides  in  waiting  all  be  here  .  .  . 


The  Song  of  the  Poor. 


"O  Rois  qui  ierez  juges  a  yotre  tour." 

Ban-ville. 


O  KINGS,  who  must  yourselves  be  judged 
one  day, 
Think   of  the  wretched    poor   that   ever 

stand 
On   Famine's  edge,  and  pity  them  !      They 

pray 

For  you  and  love  you ;  drudging  till  your  land, 
And,  toiling,  fill  your  coffers — they  withstand 

Your  enemies ;  yet  damned  on  earth  they  fare, 
Woe  infinite  and  endless  pain  they  bear; 

Not  one  there  is  but  knows  the  keen  distress 
Of  cold,  of  heat,  and  rain  and  ceaseless  care, 
For  to  the  poor  all  things  are  bitterness. 


59 


Even  as  a  beast  of  burden,  scourged  amain, 
The  wretched  peasant  lives  his  hopeless  life. 

Does  he  but  pluck  his  grapes,  or  dare  refrain 
An  hour  from  drudging  toil,  and  choose  a  wife 
To  share  the  sorrow  of  his  unequal  strife, — 
His  lord,  a  savage  bird  of  prey,  draws  nigh ; 

Relentless  comes,  and,  saying  "  Here  am  I !  " 
Seizes  what  little  he  may  chance  possess. 
Nothing  avails  the  vassal's  pleading  cry, 

For  to  the  poor  all  things  are  bitterness. 

Pity  the  wretched  jester  in  your  halls  ! 
Think  on  the  fisher  when  the  black  waves  curl 

Their  frothing  tongues,  and  crackling  light 
ning  falls 
On  his  frail  boat !  Pity  the  blue-eyed  girl, 


60 


Lowly  and  dreaming,  as  her  young  hands  whirl 
The  droning  wheel !    Think  of  a  mother's 
pain 

And  torment,  as  she  weeps  and  seeks  in  vain, 
Holding  her  fair  dead  child  in  blind  distress, 

To  warm  its  cold  heart  back  to  life  again. 
O,  to; the  poor  all  things  are  bitterness. 

ENVOI. 

Mercy  for  these  thine  own,  oh  Prince,  I  cry ! 
Peace  to  thy  vassal  'neath  his  darkened  sky, 
Peace  to  the  pale  nun,  praying  passionless, 
And  to  all  such  as  lowly  live  and  die — 

For  to  the  poor  all  things  are  bitterness. 


61 


Kyrielle. 


NAY,  not  for  me  the  toil  and  strife 
Of  'Change,  of  war,  of  public  life — 
Than  go  with  Fame,  I'd  rather  stay 
With  books,  and  pipe  and  dear  Edmee. 

A  little  garden  ? . .  .     Well,  perchance, 
If  weedless  flowers,  self-raising  plants 
Would  grow  therein,  where  I  might  stray 
With  books,  and  pipe  and  dear  Edmee. 

Horses  and  dogs  ? .  .  .     Yes,  I'd  not  mind 
Were  I  but  ever  sure  to  find 
An  hour  of  peace,  at  close  of  day 
With  books,  and  pipe  and  dear  Edmee. 

Travel  ?  . . .  Of  course  !  The  Frank  might  stare, 
The  Russian  rave,  the  Turk  despair ; 
I  none  the  less  would  them  survey 
With  books,  and  pipe  and  dear  Edmee. 


62 


But  homeward-longing  ever,  I 
Still  for  our  low-built  house  would  sign, 
Where  I  might  peaceful  be  for  aye 
With  books,  and  pipe  and  dear  Edmee. 

Old  books  and  many,  pipe  not  new, 
Edmee  all  mine,  forever,  too, 
I'd  love  them  all  till  I  were  grey, 
But  best  and  dearest,  dear  Edmee  !  . . . 


Rondeau. 

THY  breast,  dear  Doris,  ever  be 
All-hallowed,  consecrate  to  me, 

A  rest  where  this  my  heart  may  go 
Whatever  tempests  beat  and  blow ; 
A  shelter  that  my  soul  may  see 
Though  all  the  world  speak  grievously. 
Warmed  in  its  softness,  dear,  by  thee, 
My  love  shall  sometime  come  to  know 

Thy  breast. 

And  sometime,  too,  so  reverently 

Thou  couldst  not,  Sweet,  refuse  my  plea. 

I'll  kiss  the  dimple  that  I  know 

Betwixt  those  little  hills  of  snow 
Waits,  till  my  lips  press  passionately 

Thy  breast !  .  . . 


When  I  First  Saw  Edmee 

(Villanelle.) 

WHEN  I  first  saw  Edmee 
She  was  clad  all  in  blue. 
A  cold  colour,  you  say  ? 

Yes,  I  thought  so,  that  day, 

And  my  hopes  were  but  few 
When  I  first  saw  Edmee ; 
Now,  of  azure  array 

I've  quite  altered  my  view — 
A  cold  colour,  you  say  ? 
Is  the  sky  cold  in  May  ? 

How  little  I  knew, 
When  I  first  saw  Edmee. 
All  the  sweetness  there  lay 

In  the  shade  that  means  "  true  !  "  . . 
A  cold  colour,  you  say  ? 
Ah,  my  heart's  quite  away. 

The  sad  moment  I  rue 
When  I  first  saw  Edmee. 

A  cold  colour,  you  say  ?  .  . . 


Mv  Old  Coat. 


"  Sois-moi  fidele,  6  pauvre  habit  que  j'aime." 

Beranger. 


BE  ever  true  to  me,  thou  well-loved  coat, 
For  we  are  growing  old  together  now, 
These  ten  long  years  I've  brushed  thee 

every  day 

Myself;  great  Socrates  the  Sage,  I  trow 
Had  not  done  better  !  And  if  remorseless  Fate 
Gnaw  with  sharp  tooth  that  poor,  thin  cloth  of 

thine, 

Resist,  say  I,  with  calm  philosophy, 
Let  us  not  part,  thou  dear  old  friend  of  mine  ! 

How  I  recall — (for  even  now  I'm  bless'd 
With  a  good  memory !),  that  glad  day  of  days 
When  first  I  wore  thee  !      It  was  at  my  feast ; 
My  friends  to  crown  my  glory,  sang  thy  praise. 
Thy  poverty  and  age  that  honor  me 
Have  not  yet  made  their  early  love  decline — 
They're  ready  still  to  feast  us  once  again. 
Let  us  not  part,  thou  dear  olcT friend  of  mine! 

66 


Have  I  perfumed  thee  with  those   floods  of 

musk, 

Which  the  vain  fop  exhales  before  his  glass  ? 
Have  I  exposed  thee,  waiting  audience, 
To  scorn  and  laughter  of  the  great  who  pass  ? 
Just  for  a  paltry  ribbon,  all  fair  wide  France 
Was  rent  apart,  but  simply  I  combine 
A  few  sweet  wild-flowers  for  thine  ornament. 
Let  us  not  part,  thou  dear  old  friend  of  mine !  . . . 

Fear  nevermore  those  days  of  struggling  vain, 
When  the  same  lowly  destiny  was  ours ; 
Those  days  of  pleasure  intermix'd  with  pain, 
Of  sunny  sky  o'ercast  by  April  showers. 
Soon  comes  the  night,  for  evening  shadows  fall, 
And  soon  forever  must  I  my  coat  resign. 
Wait  yet  a  little,  together  we'll  end  it  all, 
And  never  part,  thou  dear  old  friend  of  mine  ! . .  . 


A  Pantoum. 

HERE  I  must  lie  on  my  bed, 
Longing  for  health  again. 
Crazy  thoughts  whirl  in  my  head, 
Mix  with  that  endless  pain. 

Longing  for  health  again — 
Dreams  of  walking  once  more 

Mix  with  that  endless  pain. 
Lying  in  bed  is  a  bore ! 

Dreams  of  walking  once  more, 
After  these  months  of  repression, 

Lying  in  bed  is  a  bore 

Past  any  means  of  expression  ! 

After  these  months  of  repression, 

To  wander,  and  study,  and  revel . .  . 

Past  any  means  of  expression, 
Pain,  you're  a  villainous  devil ! 

To  wander,  and  study,  and  revel, 

To  eat,  drink,  and  live  like  a  man  . . . 

(Pain,  you're  a  villainous  devil !  .  .  .) 
With  never  a  doctor  to  ban — 


68 


To  eat,  drink,  and  live  like  a  man, 
To  wander  in  meadow  and  wood, 

With  never  a  doctor  to  ban 

Those  things  that  I  know  to  be  good . 

To  wander  in  meadow  and  wood, 
With  Someone,  enjoying  October, 

Those  things  that  I  know  to  be  good, 
The  sky,  be  it  sunny  or  sober. 

With  Someone,  enjoying  October, 
To  see  the  gay  trees  and  the  hills, 

The  sky,  be  it  sunny  or  sober, 

With  a  curse  on  all  doctors  and  pills . 

To  see  the  gay  trees  and  the  hills, 
Hope  is  quick  faded  and  fled. 

With  a  curse  on  all  doctors  and  pills, 
Here  I  must  lie  on  my  bed  !  . . . 


69 


When  Doris  Deigns. 

WHEN  Doris  deigns  to  gaze  on  me 
All  happy  thoughts  be  mine; 
Her  eyes  are  two  twin  stars,  I  wis, 
Bright  in  my  soul  they  shine; 
No  earth-born  flower  one  half  so  fair 
As  she,  no  joy  can  aught  compare 
With  my  sweet  fire  of  love,  perdie, 
When  Doris  deigns  to  gaze  on  me ! 

When  Doris  deigns  to  smile  on  me 
The  whole  world  brighter  grows; 
A  clearer  azure  takes  the  sky, 
A  deeper  blush  the  rose; 
The  circling  lark  upon  the  wing 
A  sweeter,  purer  song  doth  sing, 
And  just  a  bit  of  Heav'n  I  see, 
When  Doris  deigns  to  smile  on  me ! 


THE    YEAR 


Spring. 


MAY  EVENING. 

SILENCE   and    peace.     The   warm,    love- 
bringing  Night 

From  the  pure  zenith  soft  and  slow  descend 
ing 

Lulls  the  sweet  air  to  rest,  with  the  day's  ending, 
Save  where  the  dark  bat  wheels  his  fickle  flight. 
Deep  glows  the  rosy-golden  West,  still  bright, 
Beyond  the  plumy  toss  of  elms  down-bending, 
Whilst  on  the    close-cut    lawns,  blurring   and 

bending, 
Tall  chapel-windows  cast  their  ruddy  light. 

Now  the  clear  blue  of  the  mid  dome  of  heaven 
Darkens,  immeasurably  deep  and  still. 
That  one  full  star  which  ushers  in  the  even 
Burns  in  rapt  glory  o'er  the  steadfast  spire ; 
And  the  Night-angel  strews  at  his  sweet  will 
The  silvern  star-dust  of  the  heavenly  choir. 


Summer. 

AUGUST  RAIN. 

DEAD  is  the  day,  and  through  the  list'ning 
leaves 

The  wind-dirge  sighs.     Sad  at  my  dim- 
lit  pane 

I  darkling  sit  to  hear  the  pattering  rain 
And  pebbly  drip  that  plashes  from  the  eaves. 
Far  in  the  misty  fields  loll  sodden  sheaves, 
Whilst  every  wheel-mark  in  the  rutty  lane 
Leads  down  its  trickling  rivulet  to  drain 
Marsh-meadows    where   the   knotted  willow 
grieves. 

Gray  afternoon  to  dusk  hath  given  place, 
And  dusk  to  silent  darkness  falls  again. 
Listless,  to  see  the  sad  earth  veil  her  face, 
I  watch  the  miry  fields,  the  swollen  rills, 
And,  farther,  through  my  glimmering  window- 
pane, 
The  rain-swept  valley  and  the  fading  hills  . . . 


73 


Autumn. 

NOVEMBER  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 

EVEN  in  her  mourning  is  the  College  fair, 
With  burial  robes  of  scarlet  leaves  and 

gold 

That  flicker  down  in  misty  morning  cold 
Or  fall  reluctant  through  gray  evening  air. 
The  Gothic  elms  rise  desolately  bare ; 
A  clinging  flame  the  twisted  ivy  crawls 
Its  blood-red  course  athwart  the  time-worn  walls 
And  spreads  its  crimson  arras  everywhere. 

High  noon  brings  some  wan  ghost  of  summer, 

still ; 
Fresh  stand  the  rose-trees  yet,  the  lawns  show 

green 

With  leaves  inlaid,  and  still  the  pigeons  fly 
Round  sun-warm  gables  where  they  court  and 

preen ; 

But  evenfall  comes  shuddering  down,  a-chill, 
And  bare  black  branches  fret  the  leaden  sky. 


74 


Winter. 

HAMPTON  HOLIDAYS. 

LAST   comes    December   with   his    ruffian 
wind 
Whirled  from  the  maelstrom  of  the  polar 

sea 

To  sweep  our  mighty  hill  in  mockery 
Of  such  enshrouding  snows  as  would  be  kind 
And  wrap  their  frozen  mother.    Stiffly  lined 
Through  thin  and  crackling  ice  the  leaves  lie 

stark 

As  hoar  Calna's  ice-locked  souls,  and  dark 
In  the  dark  air  the  branches  toss  and  grind. 

Then  dawns  another  day  when  winds  are  still ; 
From  our  frost-flashing  village  on  the  hill 
We  greet  the  laggard  sun,  and  far  below 
All  down  the  valley  see  the  silver  spread, 
Save  where  the  dim  fir-forest's  pungent  bed 
Lies  thatched  by  tufted  pine-plumes  bright  with 
snow. 


75 


MORS  OMNIUM   VICTOR 


Gunga   Din  in   Hell. 

"An*  I'll  get  a  swig  in  Hell  from  Gunga  Din  !  " 

Kiflinf. 

GREEN  crawling  slime,  that  bubbles  clotted 
blood ; 
White  wraiths  of  fetid  steam  that  rise 

and  curl, 

And  blood-red  mist,  convolving  in  a  swirl 
Of  lurid  heat,  o'er  that  putrescent  flood ; 
And  under  all,  a  seething,  rotting  mud — 
Torn  souls  that  once  were  men — flayed,  bleed 
ing  souls, 
Souls    drenched    with    gore    from    gangrenous 

bullet-holes, 

Green,    sightless  eyes — and   blood,  and  blood, 
and  blood  ! 

Lo  !     Gunga  Din  !      He  cometh  smeared  with 

gore 

That  dribbles  from  cleft  forehead  to  the  skin 
Of  putrid  drink,  one  black  foot  on  Hell's  shore, 
One  in  the  slime.      A  flayed  hand  toward  him 

grasps. 

And  one  blind,  shattered  head  that  bleeds  for  sin 
Bloats  forth  its  purple  tongue  in  strangling  gasps. 


Cui  Bono  ? 

NAY,  vex  me  not  with  dead  theologies, 
With  creeds  outworn  and  vain  polemic 

strife  ; 
To  solve  the  riddles  of  some  future  life 

Why  chill  my  soul  with  stark  philosophies  ? 
What  then  to  me  is  Aristoteles, 
Plato,  or  he  who  had  the  shrewish  wife 
(Small  blame  to  her  !),  or  Pyrrho's  doublings,  rife 
With  contradiction's  maziest  subtleties  ? 

Only  one  thing  is  sure — they  all  are  dead ; 
Sere  theologians,  wranglers  of  the  schools, 
Philosophers  and  creedsmen  have  surcease 

From  war,  their  dust  no  better  than  the  fools' 
Wherewith  'tis  mingled  undistinguished. 

So,  vex  me  not,  but  go  your  ways  in  peace  . . . 


79 


The   Bride-Bed. 


SHE  died  and  by  her  bed  I  sat  all  night. 
I  had  no  tears ;  it  was  o'er  soon  to  weep 
In  those  first  hours ;  my  heart  was  cleft 

too  deep 

For  pain  to  harbor  there.     A  waning  light 
From  the  old  moon  englorified  her  bright 
And  unadorned  hair,  a  heavy  braid 
Across  her  breast.     I  watched  her,  unafraid 
To  warm  that  leaden  hand  so  waxen-white. 

This  was  her  Bride-bed — Death  her  lover  was 
As  she  had  promised  I  sometime  should  be. 
She  lay  entwined  in  his  arms,  and  I 
Kept  watch,  and  a  great  cold  came  over  us ... 

At  last  the  untroubled  stars  that  gazed  on  me 
Waxed  pale  and  faded  in  the  morning  sky. 


80 


Dead  Loves. 

LONG  summer  nights  with  moon  that  yearn- 
eth  down 
On    endless    passion,   through    uncounted 

years, 

On  flames  of  love  more  hot  than  all  those  tears 
Of  ardent  pain  it  worketh  aye  can  drown ; 
Long  summer  nights  in  vast  Assyria's  town, 
At  white-walled  Athens,  in  imperial  Rome, 
Or  midst  dim  Northern  forests,  by  the  foam 
Of  seas  unsailed  ere  Arthur  won  renown. 

Moonlight  and  leafshade — nights  full  sweet  and 

long: 
u  O  Love,  my  love,  how  white  thy  breast !   Thy 

kiss 
Upon  my  mouth,  how  mad  ! " — "And  thou,  how 

strong 
Thine  arms !    I  fear  thy  passion  !" — "Tell  me, 

must 
Not  Time  and  Death  bow  down  to  love  like 

this  ?  . .  ." 

Now,  even  their  graves  are  crumbled  into  dust. 


81 


Death,  the  Friend. 


FULL    long  these  dreary  weeks  of  dule  I 
spend 

On  this  my  narrow  bed  of  bitter  pain. 
Alike  to  me  are  sunshine,  cloud  or  rain, 
The  day's  beginning  or  its  sombre  end  ; 
Even  sleep  itself  doth  little  comfort  lend, 
For  in  vast  dreams  the  torment  comes  again 
Vague  and  distorted  by  my  feverish  brain 

Until  I  wake  and  long  for  Death  the  Friend. 

Death  !  I  do  fear  that  empty,  breathless  Night 
Thou  bringest,  not  the  sweat  and  agony, 
The  struggling  breath,  the  terror  or  the  sight 
Of  Earth  and  all  my  being  leaving  me; 
For  couldst  thou  promise  an  awakening — 
Then,  Death,  enfold  me  with  thy  shadowy 
wing !  . . . 


82 


La  Jeune  Fille. 


"  Elle  ettit  bien  belle,  le  matin, 
sans  atours  ! 

HOW  fair,  at  dawn,  how  simply  did  she  go, 
Watching  her  new-born  garden  flowrets 

thrive, 

Spying  her  bees  in  their  ambrosial  hive, 
Ling' ring  beside  each  hedge  and  hawthorn  row  ! 

How  fair  at  eventide  lead  on  the  maze 
Of  the  mad  dance,  whilst  in  her  massy  hair 
Sapphires  and  roses  woven  crowned  more  fair 
That  face  illumined  by  the  torches'  blaze ! 

How  fair  was  she  beneath  her  pure  soft  veil, 
Outfloating  wide  upon  the  listening  night ; 
Silent  we  stood  and  far,  to  watch  that  sight, 
Happy  to  glimpse  her  in  the  starlight  pale. 

How  fair  was  she  !     Each  day  some  sweetness 

gave, 
Some  vague  dear  hope,  pure  thoughts  and  free 

from  care. 

Love,  love  was  all  she  lacked,  to  grow  more  fair. 
Peace  !  . .  .     Through  the  fields  they  bear  her  to 

the  grave  !  . . . 

83 


Lucie. 


Mes  chers  amis,  quand  je  mourrai, 

Plantez  un  saule  au  cimetiere. 

J'aime  son  feuillage  eplore, 

La  paleur  m'en  est  douce  et  chere, 

Et  son  ombre  sera  legere 

A  la  terre  ou  je  dormirai. 

Alfred  di  Musset 

DEAR  friends  beloved,  when  I  die, 
Plant  near  my  grave  a  willow-tree. 
I  love  its  pale,  down-drooping  leaves, 
Its  grace  is  sweet  and  dear  to  me, 
And  light  its  tender  shade  will  be 
Upon  the  green  earth  where  I  lie. . . 

One  night  we  were  alone  and  by  her  side 
I  sat,  she  drooped  her  head  and  as  a-dream 
Over  the  spinet  let  her  fair  hand  glide. 
So  soft  the  murmur  was  it  scarce  could  seem 
More  than  a  zephyr  whispering  in  the  reeds, 
Soft  moving  lest  the  birds,  warm-nested  there 
Should  hear  and  wake.     The  soft,  voluptuous 

air 

Of  that  sweet  summer  night  breathed  forth  to  us 
From  flowery  chalices  beside  the  glimmering 

stream. 


Far  in  the  silent  grove  the  chestnut-trees 
And  ancient  oaks  swayed  their  sad  branches 

slow; 

We  sat  and,  listening  to  the  amorous  breeze, 
Through  the  half-opened  casement  let  the  low 
Sweet  breath  of  Spring  float  in.       The  winds 

were  still, 

The  plain  deserted.     All  alone  we  were 
And  very  young. . .    Lucie  was  blonde  and  pale 
And  pensive.     As  I  musing  gazed  on  her 
No  sweeter  eyes  than  hers  e'er  pierced  the  deep 
Of  purest  heaven,  or  mirrored  back  its  blue. 
I  with  her  beauty  drunken  was ;  in  all 
The  world  I  loved  but  her,  and  yet  so  true 
So  pure  she  was  I  loved  her  as  one  loves 
A  sister,  in  all  innocence.     We  two 
Sat  silent  and  alone ;  my  hand  touched  hers, 
I  watched  the  dreams  upon  her  face  and  knew 
In  my  own  soul  how  strong  to  heal  distress 
Are  those  twin  signs  of  peace  and  happiness, 
Youth  in  the  heart,  youth  mirrored  on  the  brow. 
The  moon,  uprising  in  the  cloudless  skies, 
With  silver  fret-work  flooded  her,  and  now 
Her  smile  became  an  angel's  smile ;  she  sang, 
Seeing  her  image  shining  in  mine  eyes. 


Daughter  of  sorrow,  Harmony  !   Harmony  ! 
Sweet  speech  for  love  by  Nature  set  apart ! 
To  us  thou  earnest  from  Italy — to  her 
From  Heaven.     Sweet  language  of  the  heart, 
In  thee  alone  that  maiden,  Thought,  afraid 
And  hurt  by  even  a  passing  cloud,  may  speak, 
Yet  keep  her  modest  veil,  and  sheltered  be. 
Who  knows  the  mysteries  that  a  child  may  hear 
And  utter  in  thy  sighs  divine,  like  thee 
Born  of  the  air  he  breathes,  sweet  as  his  voice, 
And  sad  as  his  sad  heart  ?  A  glance,  a  tear 
Is  seen,  yet  all  the  rest  is  mystery 
Unknown  to  the  careless  world,  like  that  of 

waves, 

Of  night,  or  of  the  unfathomed  wilderness. . . 
We  were  alone  and  sad ;    I  looked  on  her. 
The  dying  echo  of  her  song  seemed  still 
To  vibrate  in  our  souls.     All  passionless 
Drooping  upon  my  heart,  she  leaned  her  head. 
The  cry  of  Desdemona  didst  thou  hear 
In  thee,  dear  girl  ?  I  know  not — only  this, 
That  thou  didst  weep,  and  on  thine  all-adored 
Sweet  mouth  in  sadness  let  me  press  mine  own; 
Thy  sorrow  was  it  that  received  my  kiss. . . 


86 


So  kissed  I  thee,  all  cold  and  colourless ; 
So,  two  short  months  being  sped,  wert  thou 
Laid  in  the  grave ;  so  didst  thou  fade  in  death 
Oh  my  chaste  flower !   And  thy  dying  was 
A  smile  as  sweet  as  thy  fair  life  had  been. 
God  took  thee  pure  as  when  He  gave  thee  breath. 

Sweet  mystery  of  the  home  of  innocence, 
Songs,  dreams   of   love,  laughter  and  childish 

words, 
And  thou,  all-conquering  charm,  unknown  and 

mild, 

Yet  strong  to  make  even  Faustus  pause  before 
The  sill  of  Marguerite  at  thy  command, 
Where  are  you  all?   Peace  to  thy  soul,  oh  child! 
Profoundest  peace  be  to  thy  memories  ! 
Farewell !     On  summer  nights  thy  fair  white 

hand 
Will  rest  no  more  upon  the  ivory  keys. . . 


Dear  friends  beloved,  when  I  die, 
Plant  near  my  grave  a  willow-tree. 
I  love  its  pale,  down-drooping  leaves, 
Its  grace  is  sweet  and  dear  to  me, 
And  light  its  tender  shade  will  be. 
Upon  the  green  earth  where  I  lie.  .  .  . 


88 


Luctus  in  Morte  Passeris. 


"Lugete,   O   Veneres   Cupidenesque,    et   quantum    est    hominum 
venuitiorum." 

C.  Valerius  Catullus. 

BID  you  all,  ye  Loves  and  Cupids,  mourn, 
With  what  of  pitying  kindness  men  may 
know.  « 


I 


The  sparrow  of  my  little  maid  forlorn 
Ay,  even  my  sweetheart's  sparrow,  cherished  so, 
(Loved  like  her  very  eyes,  ah  heavy  woe !) 
Is  dead.     Full  sweet  was  he,  and  knew  her  well 
As  she  her  mother  knew,  nor  long  would  stray 
From  her  fair  breast,  save  here  to  hop,  or  there ; 
His  pretty  pipings  were  for  her  alway. 
Yet  now  he  wings  the  shadowy  gloom  of  Hell, 
Whence  none  return  to  breathe  Earth's  pleasant 
air. 

But  curses  on  thee,  dark  and  evil  shade 
So  to  engulf  all  things  that  lovely  be  ! 
Thou'st  robbed  her  sparrow  from  my  little  maid  ; 
(Alas  the  crime,  the  sparrow  stark  and  dead  !) 
And  now  with  swollen  eyes,  because  of  thee 
She  weeps,  alack,  nor  will  be  comforted. 


89 


Death  in  December. 

i. 

WITH  roses  will  I  strew  our  bed 
Where  all  thine  own  thou  madest  me ; 
With  rose-weaths  I  entwine  thy  head 
So  dear,  so  dead. 

This  is  Love's  inmost  place,  where  we 
Learned  and  with  madness  learned  again 
And  knew  Love's  passionate  agony 

That  wasteth  me. 

Now  is  thy  room  and  mine  Death's  room, 
And  this  our  bed  (O  burning  kiss  !) 
Is  made  Death's  icy  bed.     The  tomb 

Shrouds  it  in  gloom. 

II. 

The  snow  beats  up  about  the  pane 
Where  once  we  watched  the  August  night, 
And  wild  mad  winds  drive  on  amain 

Across  the  plain. 


90 


III. 

Alone  ! .  .  .     Alone  ?     Beneath  my  heart 
Fainting  I  feel  our  new  life  beat, 
Where  our  lives,  joined,  though  dead  thou  art, 

Share  each  a  part. 

On  thy  clear  temples,  bleeding-red 
The  rose-wreaths  twine,  the  flowers  die. 
With  roses  do  I  deck  our  bed 

Where  thou  liest  dead. 


The  Royal  Council. 

(To    the    Peruvian    Mummies    in    the    Peabody    Museum    at 
Cambridge. ) 

BOWED  be  three   time-gnawed    heads    in 
thoughts  profound 
On  crackling  breast,  on  fleshless  hands,  on 

knees, 
Sunk  in  the  depths  of  endless  reveries 

Whilst  foolish  sun  and  fretful  earth  spin  round. 
By  night  they  counsel,  argue,  plan,  expound 
And  hold  high  court  as  once  by  tropic  seas ; 
By  day  they  rightly  take  their  royal  ease 

As  fitteth  those  whom  Death  no  more  can 
hound. 

Sage  King,  and  ye  two  Councillors  of  State, 
We  look  on  you  with  ignorant,  living  eyes. 
Ye  fear  no  death  who  be  already  dead — 

Time  pricks  you  not,  nor  haste.     Ye  sit  and 

wait, 

Each  thoughtful,  passionless  and  very  wise, 
With  shrivelled  bones   and    parchment-cov 
ered  head  . 


92 


Carmen  Mortis. 


THIS  is  the  Song  of  Death, 
This  is  the  burial-note 
After  the  end  of  breath 
Gasped  by  corrupted  throat ; 
After  the  passing-breath 
Heard  from  the  grave  remote} 
This  is  the  Song  of  Death, 
This  is  the  burial-note . . . 

O,  sweet  it  is  to  be  long  since  dead 
And  buried  in  earth  so  cold ; 

To  feel  on  the  roof  of  thy  narrow  bed 
The  weight  of  the  sodden  mould, 
To  lie  in  the  dark  of  an  endless  night 

And  the  lees  of  an  oozing  slime — 
I  know  these  joys,  for  I  have  been  dead 

And  buried,  a  long,  long  time  . .  . 

My  lips  they  are  drawn  in  a  ghastly  smile 
But  through  them  there  goes  no  breath ; 

And  my  eyes  they  are  dead  and  sunk  in  my 

head, 

Yet  forever  they  stare,  in  death, 
For  I  look  at  the  rotting  burial-boards 

Close  sagging  above  my  head ; 

93 


Yea,  I  have  been  buried  a  long,  long  time, 

For  I  have  been  long  since  dead  .  .  . 

My  corpse  is  a-cold,  f>r  the  chilling  mould 
Is  about  me  on  every  side. 

I  lie  like  a  stone,  with  my  Terror,  alone, 
For  here  in  the  grave  I  died  .  . . 
Yea,  I  screamed  full  loud  in  my  ghastly  shroud 

When  I  woke  in  the  noisome  gloom, 
And  the  sweat  of  my  agony  froze  like  ice 

As  I  fought  with  my  fearful  doom  .  .  . 

But  now — I  am  dead,  though  my  lips  still 

laugh 
In  the  motionless  black  of  night, 

Though  my  bleared  eyes  stare  in  the  grave, 
for  they  see 

Not  even  the  glow-worm's  light ; 
Yet  still  I  can  see  that  to  buried  be 

Is  a  sweet  and  a  happy  thing, 
For  I  sing  my  Song  in  the  House  of  Death, 

And  this  is  the  Song  I  sing : 

Welcome  -  slimy  -  worm  -  with  -  sightless  - 

head  - 

Blindly  -  burrowing  -  in  -  the  -  fearful  -  night  - 
Happy  -  shouldst  -  thou  -  be  -  for  -  lack  -  of  - 

sight  - 


94 


Since  -  thou  -  canst  -  not  -  see  -  that  -  I  -  am 

-  dead  - 
When  -  thou  -  comest  -  from  -  thy  -  secret  - 

place  - 
Eating  -  through  -  the  -  earth  -  with  -  silent  - 

care  - 

Boldly  -  come  -  I  -  bid  -  and  -  boldly  -  dare  - 
Down  -  to  -  drop  -  upon  -  my  -  leaden  -  face  - 

Drag  -  thy  -  sluggish  -  slime  -  across  -  my  - 

eyes  - 
They  -  will  -  never  -  close  -  to  -  touch  -  of  - 

thine  - 

Coil  -  within  -  these  -  hideous  -  lips  -  of  -  mine  - 
Where  -  a  -  Maid  -  breathed  -  long  -  ago  - 
her  -  sighs  - 

Welcome  -  slimy  -  worm  -  with  -  creeping  - 

head  - 
Meet  -  it  -  is  -  that  -  thou  -  my  -  friend  -  shouldst 

-be- 
Happy  -  art  -  thou  -  since  -  thou  -  canst  -  not  - 

see  - 
I  -  am  -  buried  -  deep  -  and  -  I  -  am  -  dead 


Then  these  be  the  words  of  the  Song  of  Death 
That  I  sing  in  my  prison-cell. 

It  charms  the  worms  with  the  hooded  heads, 
And  the  worms  I  love  full  well. 
It  charms  the  worms,  though  my  singing  is 

But  a  mouthing,  mumbling  groan, 
For  I  have  no  breath  in  this  House  of  Death 

And  I  mutter  with  lips  alone  .  .  . 

So,  my  tale  it  is  told  of  the  dread  and  cold 
In  the  depths  of  this  livid  gloom  ; 

And  I  motionless  lie,  as  I  strive  to  die, 
As  I  rot  in  my  narrow  room, 
For  I  am  not  dead  whilst  my  fearful  head 

The  foul,  fat  worms  forsake  ; 
But,  when  that  is  gone,  then  my  dream  it  is  done, 

And  I  sleep  at  last,  never  to  wake  .  .  . 


This  is  the  Song  of  Death, 
This  is  the  burial-note 
After  the  end  of  breath 
Gasped  by  corrupted  throat; 
After  the  passing  breath 
Heard  from  the  grave   remote; 
This  is  the  burial-note, 
This  is  the  Song  of  Death  .  . . 

96 


DATE  DUE 


CA VUORO 


PMINTCD  IN  U.S. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRA.R|Y^A|C,L|!TY||| 

AA    001  260188   6 


